


In the Words of a Letter

by Mystical_Cupcakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Captain John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:11:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical_Cupcakes/pseuds/Mystical_Cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in Uni, he mainly keeps to himself and has few friends. One day his professor assigns him to a soldier to write letters to. But they become closer and closer with each word, eventually turning into more than penpals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by a post about an assignment of Sherlock's to send letters to a soldier in Afghanistan, whom he gets John Watson. That's essentially where the similarities end, other than fanons. 
> 
> Also I have added a lot of stupid nods to the original stories and the tv show. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock was in the lab on Tuesday, studying the affects of different types of acid on blood. His workspace was littered with petri dishes, beakers, and test tubes. He had been working in the University lab since half past seven in the morning. He would have been there sooner if it weren't for the fact that it was an exception to let him in at that time for the opening hours were closer to nine when the professionals arrived because  he was an astounding chemistry student.

He had stayed up all night preparing for the experiment, ignoring his other schoolwork in his excitement. He actually had finished the experiment that left him sleepless at least an hour ago. He supposed he could work on his homework now, especially that essay he had to do, but he figured studying blood would be more productive in the long run. Besides who needed to know about the seventeenth century anyway? 

He felt learning about these sciences are a thousand times more important than essentially any other subject. In fact, he was skipping a class right now. He had a network of students who would send him the summary of the lessons, work, and other things he needed to know to pass, he never really needed to go to those lectures anyway. The whole lot of professors were mindless twits. They bored him immensely. Sometimes he actually made it to the classes, but that was if it was absolutely necessary.

He was concerned with a hot bunsen burner to make certain to properly boil the water to the correct temperature for his experiment. deciding that he had time he slid his chair to right of him and looked into a microscope. Adjusting the lens to rid his vision of blurriness, the image sharpened. He jot down a few notes and slid over once more to the right. He picked up a milliliter pipette and sucked up some solution from a test tube and dropped the liquid into another solution. He picked up the test tube containing the newly added ingredient and swirled it around. He waited for a color change he was expecting. Once again pulling out his notebook and writing a few more observations. 

After a few minutes turned into a couple of hours, the lunch hour had come and he still hadn't made any indications he was going to leave and get some takeaway. He did this often. Too often. It worried his friends, but he claimed his body was just transport. Transport, a meaningless lump of flesh and bones to carry the one important thing about us, our minds. He always got so agitated when people cared more about being tan, muscular, or thin and didn't do a thing to improve their minds. Their priorities were wrong. He could get shot, lose a limb in an accident, or grow a tentacle for all he cared, as long as he could use his mind. 

His friends urged him to keep a balance between maintaining his mind and maintaining his health. He did to some degree because he felt it would be easier to do the experiments he wants to with a functioning body of course, but that took little effort. So little effort that his friends would get worked up over it because he was doing the bare minimum, so for their sake he tried to eat a little more, sleep a little more than he normally would.

While pouring the now piping hot water into another beaker full of some skillfully measured chemical solution, a door opened slowly with a creak. A soft voice reached out, "Sherlock, you busy?"

Sherlock grumbled a yes. She opened the door wider and stepped inside. Molly, a small girl dressed in jeans, a striped sweater, and labcoat with a badge stating she was  authorized to be in the labs. She smiled sweetly, toying with her ponytail, a nervous habit of hers. She was holding a tray from a restaurant, that she held with one hand and had propped it on her hip to keep her other hand free. "I figured you wouldn't have eaten yet, especially since I didn't see you in any of our classes together. I have some chips leftover. take it." She didn't give him an option to decline because he would no matter what. 

"I am busy," Sherlock said. In reality, he wasn't and he knew it. He was just avoiding classes where everyone was absolutely unbearable. He could just stop his work, but he didn't want to interrupt his process. "This is time sensitive and we aren't supposed to eat in the lab."

"Don't care." She remarked with a smirk. She pulled up a stool and sat on the opposite side of him. She sipped her drink while watching him. Sherlock sighed dramatically, he looked at her, his young face pulling into an exasperated frown. "What do you want?" 

"I am waiting." she merely replied, putting her elbow on the lab table and rest her chin on her hand. Sherlock leaned back some and crossed his arms across his chest. "For what?"

"For you to finish your food I gave you." she said with a devious smirk, her small, freshly glossed lips moving to show her brilliant smile. "Fine," Sherlock relented. He snatched up the chips and stubbornly munched a few in one bite to rush the process. 

Their friendship goes back to the beginning of high school. Where they both ended up being stuck as partners in a mundane experiment. A girl who had her focus on school and a boy who was being teased so severely he couldn't show any emotion or he'd break down completely. Where a girl was willing to listen to his "deductions" as he called them. It was her who helped him make through that awful place. And he silently thanked her for it.

But it was only a friendship in his eyes and Molly understood he felt that way. She and a few others were the only people he had in his life and he would never want to ruin it. And she didn't want to ruin that for him. 

She laughed at how stubborn he was. He smiled back, but his mouth was now full of chips so he looked like a squirrel. She laughed even harder, causing him to nearly choke. He cleared his palate and coughed. "Well I finished, happy?"

"Yes, very much so." she replied. She gathered her things and explained that she had to and talk to one of her professors. 

Sherlock continued doing his work.  _I better be getting to class at some point,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _If Mycroft finds out I have been ditching too many classes he'll tell mummy. That ..._ He trailed off in anger.

Mycroft tends to keep an eye on his "baby brother."  Ugh, Sherlock hated that nickname. It was so undignified and too sentimental of a term to be used in their relationship. Mycroft liked order and power, that is why he majored in government. So, if he had anything on Sherlock, he would use it to his advantage. It is hard to hide from Mycroft, but not impossible. Sherlock knew his way around to get away with a lot of things, but if people took notice of absence, word would get to Mycroft no doubt. 

Sherlock understood why his parents thought it was important to go to university, but to him it was just a certificate if he graduates. He had decided to take general education in his first few years to get it all over with, but he already regrets that decision because he cannot stand those classes. It is just too much of nothing interesting, it has been driving him mad. Which is why he always ends up in the lab.

But worst of all, those supposedly "high level" courses he takes in his major is filled with information he already knew. He spent most of his childhood well into his teenage years researching everything from chemistry to criminology to psychology. All of the sciences, except useless ones like astronomy. He never paid attention to anything as impractical as atronomy because it never directly affected anything or anyone so why have it to take up valuable space in your mind when you could put in more important information like the different types of tabacco ash? He would never need it. 

He cleaned up his workspace. Putting away all the beakers and test tubes in the sink. He ignored the sign to wash afterwards because they were lucky enough he was doing that. When he hadn't had access to a lab like this he would run experiments in his room or his mum's kitchen. That was a mess. He would be the same at this lab, but if he didn't even try to make an effort to clean up after himself he would be banned. And he had already been banned from testing anything at home for the same reasons. 

he retucked in his tight buttonup into his wellfitting jeans and shoved his notebook into his bookbag which he slung onto his shoulder. He headed for the door. 

As he was walking out of the corridor, he bumped into someone accidentally. The man turned around. He was young, but he had slightly greying hair, odd for his age. He was one of the few friends of Sherlock. He had only just met him at the beginning of term. He still cannot remember his name. "Hey..." Sherlock trailed off, making little effort to find his name, while walking by out to the courtyard.

His name was Greg Lestrade. Greg turned around and called Sherlock's name before he could slip off. Sherlock liked him, it wasn't his fault that his name was so common. But he wanted to leave without having to chitchat. Sherlock wasn't particularly socialable. He liked talking to some people like Molly and Greg, but he can only handle so much. 

Sherlock, not wanting to seem rude by social standards, turned around reluctantly. He wasn't as great friends with Greg as he was Molly. Molly had gotten to Sherlock to open up to her, something not everyone can do, and Greg just hadn't accomplished that yet. 

"I just wanted to remind you that Professor Conan is giving an assignment that you have to be there for." Greg pressed, making sure he got his attention. Sherlock was planning on going to his literature class anyway, but he was grateful he was reminded. He didn't thank Greg, though. He just solemnly nodded and headed back out again. By now Greg was used to his seemingly rude ways, so he wasn't offended and continued talking to his other friends that had accumulated in a group near him during their conversation.

Sherlock made his way to the otherside of campus where his next class awaited. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check this chapter for hidden nods to not only the show, but to Conan Doyle himself *hint hint* ...I am so proud of those nods... anyway enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its going to get updated a lot slower. Sorry guys, but thanks for all the hits, kudoseseses (kudosi?), and bookmarks! I happened to have this typed up a lot of the way, but from now on it may be a week at a time :/

Sherlock headed into the Joseph Bell Building, named after the founder's friend who was a surgeon. Which was odd to Sherlock because the classes in that building were all literature and writing based courses. The connection there was lost to him. 

He headed into the classroom and walked to the very back table to throw his bags into the always empty seat next to him and flung himself into his seat dramatically. As students began to fill up the desk around him, he adjusted his position to steeple his fingers at his chin and closed his eyes. Usually he went to his "mind palace" during monotonous classes like this one. 

There was the ordinary commotion of people talking before the professor stepped in. It made it hard for Sherlock to zone out enough to retreat from reality, but it wasn't impossible. The professor finally came in, the noise gently faded out to a respectful silence.  _Finally,_ Sherlock thought to himself. Now he could get some peace. He was about to slip away into the confines of his mind palace when his trance was interrupted. 

"Mr. Holmes! Are you sleeping in my class? Do you find this boring?" Professor Conan chided him. He had done this before in her class, but she had apparently noticed his absence and was offended by it. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "No, ma'm." He breathed in a fed-up tone of voice. 

She scowled at him. He tried to look interested in what she had to say for a few minutes afterwards to pacify her until she had moved onto more important issues like the young man who was doing work for another class without permission.

 _Well, there goes my plans for this lecture from hell._ Sherlock angrily thought. He was so bored of this already and it has been only fifteen minutes. He'll have to sit through another 45 minutes of this nonsense. Why had he come? He knew he had to this time. He real question was: Why did he have to at all?

University is not meant for everybody. And apparently not him. His parents understood that he needed to have a degree of some sort to be taken seriously. Sherlock understood this no doubt, but he wished it wasn't like this. He wanted to be able to solve crimes and work in labs and have his work put to use. Not credited in the sense he wanted to pride himself with being able to say he did it, but to help in the effort of solving a case. He doesn't want to be disregarded like he had been in the past. Like the Carl Powers case. It still irks him that he knew something was wrong, but was completely ignored due to the fact he was eight and "lacked the education to give reliable input." 

He did not want that to repeat. He knew everything there was to know about chemistry, criminology, and British laws to make him more competent than most. if not all. the detectives and cops in the United Kingdom itself. All the curriculum he had taken was only to make him noteworthy, not to learn because it was old information to him. 

He wanted to do everything. From solving cases to discovering new diseases, it didn't matter. But the nonsense that took to get him there was impossible to deal with. To choose just one line of work and completely forget about the rest? The idea was devastating to him. He couldn't imagine, for example, becoming a lead detective because he would have to work for and under imbeciles that could barely differentiate a murder from a forced suicide. Or to be stuck in a lab, not actually going out to see your work put into use? Unbearable. But what job is out there that could actually let him do both? He would love to know. Until he does though, he was just floundering. Going from one subject to another hoping someone will recognize his talent and need his skill.

But this.  _This_ class and others alike made coming to this place awful. He didn't want to learn anything. None of it was of any use to him. How would knowing how a Socratic seminar worked help him find a murderer?  How would knowing how to literature from the late nineteenth century help him understand the body reacts to exposure to a specific virus? How would knowing about the solar system help him stop a psychopath from blowing up London itself?

It wouldn't help him whatsoever, so if he was going into a field that did not require that knowledge, why did he have to take this class?

Sherlock's eyes had glazed over. He had begun to absently play with his pencil in his boredom. With each tap he said "bored" under his breath. It had caught the professor's attention. She gave a great huff of anger and snapped him out of it. She continued, "As I was saying.... we are to start a new assignment."

 _Great, another piece of mindless, time-consuming piece of busywork that he'd have to fake his way through._ Sherlock thought. 

"This assignment is less about an analysis of a book, or research on a old author, or anything of that sort that you find so boring." She said pointedly at Sherlock. "This assignment is more relatable. It brings our focus back to the now. Back to our reality rather than one made up for our enjoyment. I thought it would be a nice change..."

 _Oh get one with it. You could TRY to make it interesting._ Sherlock thought impatiently.

"I thought we could get personal and stray away from the subject our assignments normally revolve around. What we will be doing for the next few weeks is write to those in Afghanistan." She finished. "Now this assignment, you will be required to write a well-formated, kind letter to a soldier assigned to you. He will respond back, so you must be earnest about your questions and respectful." She pressed on. 

"I will hand out slips of paper with the appropriate address and name of the soldier you have been assigned to." The professor explained. 

Sherlock shifted in his seat again. He sat up properly from his unconvential lounging position, so he could get the his slip of paper when the people passing around the sheets of information came around. 

 One of the students came by and nearly threw the slip at him. Most of the students never appreciated his sarcastic comments. They found him a bit pretentious thinking he knows better than everyone. Sherlock paid no mind to this action, he wasn't trying to make friends. He was perfectly content with the few he had. He didn't need everyone to be his friend to feel loved and wanted. Sherlock knew he was hard to deal with, so it didn't phase him when people acted in this manner. He was just grateful to have some people who were patient enough to look past his quirkiness.

Sherlock picked up the piece of paper and looked at it. The slip gave the address and all what he needed to know how to send it. The bottom of the slip gave a name and a rank: 

_Captain John Watson of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Army Doctor_

Sherlock folded up the note and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He slouched back into his chair and waited for further instructions. 

"I want to see your first draft. " The professor said pointedly to Sherlock. She knew he would probably say something awful and rude. 

Which is what he did in fact. He tried to hold back. He really did. But apparently not enough because when he turned in his letter to be approved, she immediately sent him back to try again. 

By the time class ended, he had turned in a number of drafts to the professor. She finally became fed up and decided that the final letter he turned in was as good as it was ever going to get.

The letter said:

_Dear Cpt. John Waston M.D.:_

_I have been assigned to send a meaningless letter that you will found not even remotely endearing. I am of no sentimental ties to you, so how is hearing from me going to make you being out in Afghanistan anymore livable? I see absolutely no use in this letter, but I have to do it anyways or else I won't get the credentials I am striving for. I am required to tell you about myself and ask a few questions about life in the military to get you to respond or whatever. As I stated we have no previous connection, so why you would want to know about my life is lost on me. I am wanting to go into the field of the criminal sciences, but seeing as their are no jobs that wouldn't involve tedious work, I frankly have no idea why I am trying. I have an older brother who practically runs the country, but we don't get along. That's enough, onto you. I already figured out who you are through research and the rest by deductive reasoning, therefore I don't need you provide to the mundane information about where you lived, your family members, etc. I have to get a response though, so try not to bore me, but write back something interesting about the military I suppose._  

_Sherlock Holmes_

She gave a relenting sigh, accepted the letter, and placed it amongst the others in the stack. Sherlock gathered his belongings and returned to the lab once again.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually added another chapter... like whoa wasn't expecting that.

A couple of weeks had passed after the letters were sent. Sherlock had shown up maybe twice to the class since, which was impressive from him. But considering that the introduction of the project for this unit had not gone very well, he figured it may be in his best interest if he actually showed up rather than further upsetting his professor.

Nothing had changed much in that time span. Just the ordinary experimenting Sherlock indulged in. He had a few breakthroughs which he promptly added to his blog.

While he was an absolute genius in chemistry, he was adversely skilled in writing and computers. But he was stubborn about getting some advice to gain popularity as suggested by his supportive friends. Most of his posts consisted of jotted down notes only he could puzzle through. But nonetheless, he still added his research to his blog "for the greater good of society". 

As if on cue, Lestrade reminded Sherlock that the letters had come in and Professor Conan was to pass them back, so it was of great importance to be there.

Sherlock once again trekked across the courtyard from the labs to the Joseph Bell Building. He uncermoniously flopped into his seat and flung his bag into the chair beside him as usual. 

 Thee students began to trickle in, in groups and pairs all continuing their conversations from the hallway. The noise went to a dull murmur as the professor came in holding a basket filled with envelopes.

“Now,” she spoke. “The letters we sent were read and replied to. Now it is your turn to read the letters and answer their questions.” She waved her hands impatiently as she talked, feeling these were tedious instructions. With a huff she set the basket on her table in the front of the room and began sorting through it.

One by one, students went up to grab their letters. Sherlock went up to the table when he heard his name called. Professor Conan held out the letter out from behind her while searching for another name to call out. Sherlock stood by her hand, still not reaching for the letter. He hated being handed things, but with an eye roll, he accepted the letter and returned to his seat. 

It read:

_Dear Sherlock Holmes:_

_Well, I suppose I don't have much to say now. I didn't realize I was that easy to find on the internet. But you could have at least made it easier to make conversation. I mean what am I supposed to write now? You know I could have just written a thank you note and a couple of things about my life, would have made responding easier._

_I am just kidding, I actually liked your letter because I am glad you were honest about the whole situation being corny. It left me thinking about how these letters don't really provide much of consolation coming from a stranger. But at least your letter keeps me amused, so props for that_ _. I can't really say much about the military since I'm on duty and everything, so I can't return the favor of keeping you entertained. However, I would like to ask_ _you about something you mentioned in your letter. You said you figured out who I was through deductive reasoning, what do you mean by that?_

_Thanks,_

_Cpt. John Waston M.D_

Sherlock read over the letter.  _Seems like the guy has a sense of humor. One deduction I did not anticipate._  He thought.  _A bit stir-crazy, though. Seems like he doesn't find anyone interesting there with his eager writing style and long response._

Or perhaps he genuinely found Sherlock fascinating and enjoyed his insight, but that would be unlikely in Sherlock's opinion. 

He set the paper aside. But kept thinking about it. With the amount of times he had to rewrite that letter which only was accepted because his professor got impatient, he was certain it would get a very negative response.

"I want you to respond to their letters as an assignment now that you have read their responses." Professor Conan told the class. The class groaned.

 _See, I was right. All of these letters are full of lies forced on by social convention._ Sherlock thought to himself. 

 "That's enough. Now get to work, I need to have these sent out as soon as possible." She said. 

 Sherlock, while still bitter about the class, thought perhaps it could have been worse. At least this captain guy seems to interested in his theories. 

Sherlock wrote with less disdain than he thought he would when he first recieved the letter:

_Dear Cpt. John Waston M.D.:_

_Sorry about that. I tend to rub people the wrong way whenever I go and make my deductions. Deductive reasoning is my way of analyzing present details that often get overlooked to come up with a logical conclusion. These details, when mastered like I have, can be spotted with a mere glance. For example, I can tell which hand you write with by the slope of your letters, which you are right handed. I can also tell what gender you are through your "font" of handwriting you use, but of course I already knew this because of your name. But it goes on, I can tell your mood and general thought process based on word choice, pressure placed on the pen, etc. I can tell you aren't getting along with everyone because you find them dull. You are almost anxious to have some change. Again these are based on things I observe in a short moment. However if you were here, I could tell determine much more. I could go on, but I'm sure you're bored by now. Or angry, those are the two reactions I get the most whenever I explain my methods. So I'll leave it at that._

_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock handed in the letter to Professor Conan. She read over the letter, she didn't trust him to write back a proper response. "Sherlock, you can't write about this! You aren't supposed show off about this deduction thing you do, it is rude!" she said angrily. 

Sherlock argued, "The letter he sent me asked about it! I am only answering his question!" 

He couldn't stand her and for some reason she didn't like him either. There were plently of other students in the class that never showed up or slept through class, why him? Though it may be due to that time that he deduced that her husband was cheating on her with the one of the other staff members. 

She gave and set the letter down rather harshly on a pile of papers sitting on her desk.

He nodded and headed out of the building.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible person and I am so sorry to make you guys wait.... I will complete this fic even if it kills me and I have to write in my grave with my skeleton hands clacking on my keyboard as I type! (Its almost Halloween forgive me for that comment)

Sherlock was at home sleeping. He was trying to catch up on missed sleep. He recently pulled several all-nighters consecutively so he could be there for each development in his experiment and witness it himself. However, Sherlock could only operate like that for so long. So when he had gathered his conclusions and verified his hypothesis in his lab report, he went home to rest. While this routine was unhealthy for the body, Sherlock claimed it was the best way he could use his mind to its fullest potential. 

He gradually woke up from his 18-hour slumber. He was still exhausted and weighed the consequences of never getting up ever again. As he lay there stretched out in his bed, he looked about his room.

It was trashed completely. Odd books and papers were everywhere. His poster of the periodic table was ripped and was barely staying up on the wall, relying on the only tack remaining from when he first hung it up. His dresser and headboard were cluttered with disturbing knickknacks such as different jars of formaldehyde-soaked creatures and body parts, a jar filled with bees in resin casting, and a skull that he named Billy.

His room would ideally be coated in dust but his mother finds that to be "hazardous to his health." Which he always argued that it allowed him to determine time when someone would have broken in and what they had done while they were in his room and without that it could prove to be more hazardous than affecting his allergies. Though that argument never worked and she cleaned up in the room as much as she could. 

His phone buzzed. Sherlock, with a grunt, sat up. He grabbed his blanket and ripped the tangled mess from the bed swiftly. His phone clattered to the floor. He figured he would have lost it in his sheets while he slept. 

He picked up the phone and turned it on. The screen showed a popup saying he had a text message from Greg, "hadnt seen you today. letters came in better get yours before Conan..." Sherlock stopped reading to check the time. He was ten minutes late to English class already and it would take him at least another ten to make it and be presentable, considering he was still in his pyjamas.

He was about to just give up and go back to sleep but then he began to think, " _That captain seemed interesting enough, I am slightly curious as to how he responded to my last letter. What if Conan refuses to give me his letter because I missed class? And then, of course, Mycroft would know for certain how seriously I am taking Uni..."_

He convinced himself that he had to go. With yet another grunt of frustration and exhaustion, he got up and dressed. When he was ready, he went out the door and headed to the college.

He dashed up the steps of the Joseph Bell Building and slipped in the classroom casually. He sat down quietly in his seat at the back of the room and hoped Professor Conan wouldn't call him out on his tardiness. 

Luckily, she didn't. But, she gave him a deadly, cold stare. 

"Seeing as we now have  _everyone_ here," He spoke to soon. She pointedly looked at Sherlock for a moment before she continued. "I will hand out the letters again, but this is the last set of writing we will be doing. You will have to say your goodbyes and answer those last questions in this letter. As this is the last assignment for this unit, the module will be over." 

When Sherlock finally got his letter, it said:

_Dear Sherlock Holmes:_

_It wasn't a problem at all. I find your deductive reasoning intriguing. It makes sense after all, I mean as a doctor there are psychological indications of a person's innermost thoughts through how they behave. I never realized how detailed they were. I always analyzed the broader clues. But that is not the field I usually work in, so what do I know?_

_You said that you could get more detail in person. That must be amazing. Though it must require a lot more time than looking over a letter, given that there must be a lot more to take in. Do they have to sit through an thorough inspection under your watchful eye? Or is it as instantaneous as you make it seem? Must be fantastic to see in action._

_Thanks,_

_Cpt. John Waston M.D_

_  
_Sherlock read through letter at least twice. Its not like he didn't understand what it said or anything. He just- didn't get it. Why did he act so enthusiastically about it?

Sherlock recalled that he hadn't revealed anything devastating about John's personal life, so he shouldn't be that upset. But usually people were annoyed with his arrogance. Which, granted, Sherlock knew that was a "fault" of his (though he didn't quite see the problem with it), but he couldn't help it. So in response, he had grown to anticipate it. But  _genuine interest_? How is he supposed to reply to that?

You could argue that his few friends have showed some curiosity in what he does, but to Sherlock, it wasn't the same. They cared for him, sure, but his hobbies were usually discouraged, ignored, or, at best, tolerated. It just isn't the same as actually wanting to hear about his methods. 

Sherlock slumped in his chair, wondering what to do next. How can he sum up everything he wanted to say about his science of deduction and say goodbye in one last letter? 


End file.
